Tuesday, August 28, 2012


The only physical fight I’ve ever been in was in eighth grade, when a stupid boy at a high school football game called my fat friend fat.

She was embarrassed and there was no response. She was fat. It wasn’t a matter of opinion, it was a fact.

I remember wishing he had called her ugly; at least that’s open for debate. Calling a fat girl FAT is just cruel.

Without even thinking, I ran over to that boy and said, “Don’t call my friend fat!” and pushed him hard, and he fell backwards, onto the grass.

He was startled, and then embarrassed.

“You short bitch!” he screamed (haha) but before he could get up, I took off running as fast as I could, leaving my fat friend behind.

Don’t call people fat.
It pisses me off.

What’s even more annoying? Calling a girl fat who’s NOT fat.

That unfortunate thing happened to my friend Cameron, who was called FAT a few months ago by this guy she was seeing.

Calling a girl fat!
BIG don’t.

Isn’t that a rule on Page 1, Paragraph 1 of the book on how to be a gentleman?

I mean, there are jokes about this. Cartoons about a woman asking her husband if a dress makes her look fat, and he knows not to say anything.

But Drabble and Dagwood aren’t dumbasses like Adam.

Adam not only called a girl fat who wasn’t fat, but went a step further. He decided to say this as they were laying NAKED IN BED. Mortifying.

Adam and Cameron met a while ago but discovered a mutual attraction and started hooking up.

Adam did have six-pack abs, but he was still unnecessarily arrogant.

His stupid six-pack was what started it all.

One night, Cameron was complimenting him on his abs, “like, tracing them,” she said, right after they finished hooking up.

He responded with a nonchalant, “oh, these old things? They’re no big deal.”

“Well, I think they are,” she said. “I mean, I don’t have a six-pack.”

Without skipping a beat, Adam said, “That’s just because you have a beer belly.”



Mortified, Cameron rolled over, so that her exposed 125-pound body was no longer on top of him and said, “that is a VERY rude thing to say to a girl.”

She was so mortified she didn’t even try to defend herself. She should have said, “Who’s fat??!!” and…pushed him to the ground.
And then ran like hell.

But she believed him and froze, unable to speak up. It was sad.

Adam immediately apologized, which went through one ear and out the other.

Because it doesn’t matter what you say after, telling a naked girl she has a beer belly five minutes after you sleep with her isn’t something you UN-hear.

That’s just bad bed manners.

And, for the record, this guy isn’t exactly David Beckham know what I mean?? More like Drabble.

Cameron slept on the other side of the bed, miserable, and walked around for the rest of the week in loose-fitting garments.

Man, if only my eighth grade self would have been there.

HE’D be running.


Monday, August 27, 2012

How to prepare for a hurricane, according to my mom

My mom called me yesterday in nothing short of a tizzy.


I paused.

“It’s only a tropical storm,” I said. 

“It’s not only a tropical storm!” she said sternly. “Bobby Jindal is going to declare a STATE OF EMERGENCY later today at a press conference!”

Then she told me to come over immediately and help board up the windows. 

I was still in my pajamas.

She continued with the “hurricane plan,” which I was told I was a part of, so this information would apply to me too.

“…And if it comes in at a Cat 3, we’re leaving,” she said.

A Cat 3?

(My mother was now abbreviating things.)

I told her that my car was filled up halfway, and I thought she people were overreacting about it. 

After a minute, even she calmed down. 

“Well, the ‘state of emergency’ is so they can open up federal funding…” she muttered.

I’ve never had to evacuate for a hurricane. 

I wasn’t living in New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina, and growing up we always stayed, waiting out each storm, frustrated that we had no power. (There are only so many rounds of poker you can play with your family using fake money.)

My parents live in a naturally high part of the city, so flooding isn’t an issue. But their power goes out FIRST, I remember that distinctly. (I also remember my mom bribing electrical workers with cans of Coca-Cola to get us back on the grid.)

It’s always a surprise how limited you are in food options when the power goes out. 

You can’t use the microwave and you can only open the refrigerator for two seconds at a time, so you need to know exactly what you need and where it is located before you open the door. 

My current apartment is no longer a basement, but the top floor, and the front door sits 25 feet up from the street. (If that floods, everyone else is dead.)

I haven’t waited out any major storms there yet, but it has rained a whole bunch lately and the power has never gone out. 

The last time everyone freaked out about a storm, I had to cancel a flight to Washington, D.C. and it turned out to be nothing. 

This storm isn’t even a hurricane yet. The only preparation I thought I needed to do was to make sure my roommate, who is leaving on vacation, was bringing her cat 3 to her parents’ house.

My plan was to buy a box of wine and a new book.

But, now I have to step it up. 

My mother has already texted me before 9 a.m. to ask me if I am working today – yes – and she reminded me that I am coming over after work to board up all their windows.

“And you should put your car in an elevated garage!!” she said. 


“No, mom, that’s the landlord’s job,” I said.

I told her that I would stay at their house if it got bad (even though my dad has gone on record to say that having multiple people around during a storm is “just more mouths to feed”). 

I said I would evacuate with them to Baton Rouge if the storm comes in as a “Cat 3,” although I have no idea what I would bring with me, since my massage chair won’t fit in their van.

Of course, no one wants to be the one to say that a storm isn’t a big deal, and then have it be a big deal.

And the cone model absolutely puts Isaac hitting New Orleans directly. But they say it’s coming in as a Cat 1, and not super formed and they don’t know for certain if it’s going to form too terribly in its short time over the Gulf. 

I know people who are already evacuating. 

Some say they don’t want to live without electricity; another person at my office said he didn’t want to be in the city, “if shit gets crazy and people start looting like they did last time.”

Schools are closed today through Wednesday, which I always enjoyed as a kid, but as an adult, I think it adds an unnecessary panic to the city. 

The grocery store was a mob yesterday. No one was in the 10 items or less line.

Speaking of panic, I’ll be in that number later today, as I stand on a ladder to fit boards over windows and make other preparations to my parents’ house that would rival the apocalypse. 

For a storm that’s going to hit TOMORROW at midnight.

I really hope this city doesn't run out of boxed wine. 


Friday, August 24, 2012

Being adorable

There are some things you do in life that, when you tell other people about it, they’re all, “Awesome. I’d like to do that, too.”

Like, “I’d like to learn how to play the guitar!!
I’d like to take a class on cake decorating.”

Sailing?? Neat!

Other activities require a bit more explanation.
Like when you say, “I joined a Chorus Girl project.”

“A what?”

“A group of girls who sing and dance to a routine from the 1920s.”


Even by New Orleans standards, people found my new extracurricular activity odd.

(I had to go into a longer explanation.)

“See, every week for a month, 15 of us have been learning this song and dance from the movie “Singing in the Rain” and we’re going to perform it.”

Which is EXACTLY what happened on Aug. 4, 2012: my debut as a Chorus Girl:


The best part was looking adorable.

Yes, adorable. It was the number one motivating factor throughout the whole experience.

During the weekly 2-hour practices, every time we’d feel awkward or frustrated by a particular move, (or, as I like to say, “LOOKING LIKE A MOOSE”), the instructor would say, “Don’t worry about it. Ya’ll are going to look so adorable that people aren’t going to know what to do with themselves.”

I believed her. And it made me feel better.

Because who doesn’t want to WOW people with their adorable-ness??

(This is why men aren’t allowed to be part of the Chorus Girl project. Red lipstick on them wouldn’t have the same effect.)

The promise of looking super cute was what got me through practices where it seemed impossible to get all the steps right. (The attitude rubbed off on my attire, too. I started my first practice in Puma sneakers; the last practice I wore purple velvet pumps.)

On the eve of our performance, white fringe dresses were purchased. Glittery headpieces were assembled. Makeup sessions were arranged.
It really was the most adorable I’ve ever felt in my adult life.

But then something terrible happened.

At the height of my Chorus Girl career, right before our peak performance, I got dumped.

It wasn’t anyone serious, but it was a massive blow to my self-confidence. And confidence, I have learned, is what you need in order to perform in front of a crowd.

I miserably put on my nude fishnets.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAH!” I wailed dramatically to my twin sister, Joy, on the phone, 800 miles away. “The LAST thing I want to do right now is go out in front of everyone and be… adorable!”

I would have cried actual tears, but I didn’t want to ruin my heavy eye makeup.

I had a grey cloud over my head all the way to the venue.

But then I saw them: My fellow adorabelles in their outfits and hair and makeup all gathered outside the bar. I was instantly cheered up, because, as I kept reminding myself:  This is how I look, too. ADORABLE.

And we all had put 8 hours of our time into this routine. We cancelled plans and re-arranged things to all be at The Maison every Wednesday night, committed to this. I was about to have it rained on.

But once I slipped into the mix, the grey cloud dissipated.

We were a glittery gaggle and every single person that saw us smiled big. Bartenders served us first. Perfect strangers told us how great we looked.

And then, a photographer in the group announced that we were doing a photo shoot outside against the brick building and I can’t even count how many people gawked at our awesomeness while we posed.

 “Adorabelles gone bad.”

When it was our turn to perform, I was pumped with adrenaline and built-up aggression from my shitty day.
I was jittery. The bar was packed.

Once the music came on, and we all ran out to the stage, something came over me. I danced more confidently than I’ve ever danced before. I sang louder than I ever have in public. The crowd absolutely loved us.

We weren't like anything anyone had seen before. No one dances like they did in the 1920s. There was no booty shaking, there were no moves from Wii Dance. Nobody dropped it like it (was) hot.

We plowed through that bar like a streak of sunshine, white flapper dresses and red lips, GENE KELLY-ing everyone’s faces off.
I couldn’t even see the crowd with all the camera flashes pointed at us.

And, in what I had previously thought impossible just an hour before, I. Couldn’t. Stop. Smiling.

Having people clap and cheer for you after a performance is a high you can’t top. And nothing else mattered at that moment except for how proud I was of myself.
And  proud of my fellow dancers, and the choreographers who made it happen.

I will forever remember the Chorus Girl Project for lighting that fire of confidence within me, and in a pinch. It saved my day.

And now I have a new outlook: Gray cloud?
SING IN THE RAIN about it.

But really though.

I had an adora-ball.


Tuesday, August 21, 2012


What’s ruder than hooking up with someone and having them say afterwards…“oh, I have a girlfriend back home”?

Yes. There’s something ruder than that.

Them adding, “But I’m totally fine with it, if you are.”

This is the compromise that Greg, a guy who lived in Canada, proposed to my friend Mia, who lives in South Carolina.

And it just kept getting worse.

Greg was a photographer, and incredibly good-looking, and found a niche taking pictures of marshes and lighthouses and sweetgrass baskets. As such, he flew to town every few months.

Greg and Mia met at a party, and hit it off. After his third trip back to South Carolina, two of which he and Mia had several sleepovers, Greg dropped the news.

“A GIRLFRIEND?” Mia asked, heartbroken.

No, they hadn’t discussed being exclusive, but they talked on the phone and on the internet regularly enough over the past six months that she thought she was the only one. At least the main one.

She was hurt and disappointed. Her dreams of falling in love with the hot Canadian photographer were shattered.

And she felt like a cheap wh0re.

What was she, some bedroom distraction while he built a life with someone else??

Someone he properly referred to as his “girlfriend??”

It was sad; Mia was going to hint that she wanted to visit him when he flew back to Canada the next day.

Mia, being one of my more level-headed friends, said matter-of-factly, “Look, I’m not gonna be that girl who hooks up with someone who has a girlfriend. That makes me feel uncomfortable.”

(P.S. Uncomfortable. A word guys understand.)

Greg responded as arrogantly as expected.

He said he was sorry Mia felt that way, because HE liked what they were doing, and “where they were going.”

Where’s that exactly, Greg? Oh, Nowhere?

Mia left the house where he was staying, visibly disappointed, and ignored his calls and texts.

She got another call from Greg later that night and picked up. He was drunk and pleading.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I really like you.”
Mia’s heart sank hearing him say that.

He then added, “Can you still bring me to the airport tomorrow?”




Serioulsy, I would have laughed that hard at him.

But, Mia said YES she would pick him up.

…At five a.m.

(Um. Maybe not so level-headed haha)

Her reasoning, she says, is that she wanted closure. She had spent all day thinking about him and them and she wanted answers about this “girlfriend.”

She wanted to tell him how much she liked him and wanted to know how serious it was with her. She was going to lay it on the line.

She arrived at the house at FIVE A.M. and knocked on Greg’s door.

He answered, messy hair, looking like he was still drunk. He was certainly not dressed and ready with his luggage.

“Hold on, I’m going to need a second,” Greg said wiping his eyes and walking back to his room.

Mia followed.

“Wait,” Greg said. “Don’t follow me.

“There’s a chick in there. I met her at the bar last night and took her home.”




Who thinks this situation is OK???

How can you have your former hookup buddy pick you up at 5 a.m. to go to the airport the day after ya’ll break up, and casually have another chick in your bed??


And why couldn’t THAT chick have brought him to the airport???

“Uh…see ya,” Mia said and walked back to her car, mortified.
She mentally threw away her, "I like you" speech.

She never heard from Greg or saw him in town again after that.

Good. Canada can keep him.


Friday, August 17, 2012

Airing out my dirty laundry

I am considering dropping off all my laundry to the nice Asian people down the street and picking it up freshly laundered later.


I’m perfectly capable of doing laundry, I’m just lazy. And all the clothes spilling over my wicker basket onto the floor like a waterfall makes me feel like I’m DROWNING in last season’s Forever 21 apparel!!

How did I let my laundry get this bad, you ask? Because we’re talking at LEAST three “super” loads here. At least
And that’s not even separating clothes into whites and colors, because if one were to separate the colors from the whites, it would probably be four loads.

Yes, sometimes I have to dig into my dirty clothes pile to “re-wear” something (strapless bra, jorts, jskirt). My roommate calls this “double dipping.” But I figure those things can be dirty without people noticing...or me smelling like a foot. 

So why not just do the damn laundry?? 


1.) I’M TOO BUSY.  
What has become painfully clear by way of strep throat and a general “running that body down,” (thanks Tom Petty) I realized that for the past several weeks, I haven’t been home for more than 2 hours at a time.

(Cue a dramatic “woe- is-me-I-have-too-many-social-commitments” hand over my forehead.)

Last week, for example, I had obligations every night for eight days straight…AFTER I got off work at my full-time job. EIGHT DAYS STRAIGHT.

And yes, mom, I could have not gone out on the weekends after said commitments, but there are 17 steps to get downstairs to the laundry room, and carrying a waterfall of clothes while tipsy doesn’t seem safe. 

Or, you know, fun.

The dryer in my apartment takes an effing month to dry anything (two months for towels), so I can’t be like Kelly Ripa in that commercial where everything is washed and dried and pressed in 15 minutes. AND MY STOVE DOESN’T BOIL WATER IN 90 SECONDS.

Also, since I share the washer and dryer with four other people on our side of the house, I can’t start the process and leave things in the washing machine for days hours at a time.

Heaven forbid the mildly attractive downstairs neighbor switch my laundry and NOT know that my skinny jeans go on the drying rack, not the dryer. Also, I don’t want him to see my “comfy” underwear.

You know how most lazy people end up being forced to do their laundry because they run out of things to wear??  Like people being forced to go to the grocery store (Papa John's) when they run out of food?? 

Right. Thanks to my roommate, I haven’t run out of things to wear. 

See, during my ridiculously long hiatus from the spin cycle, my roommate has been doing summer cleaning and putting piles of clothes she’s giving away onto my bed for me to peruse. 

And since we’re the same size and she’s got good taste, I’ve just been attacking  that pile rather than wash the things I have. 

Bonus: people at work have been complimenting me on my new wardrobe. 

 You try putting away laundry when men's diving is on. That demands 110 percent of your attention.

Who's got time for laundry, I have to go watch ostrich races at the fairgrounds!!!  

And I've got the perfect dress to wear!! ...From my roommate.


Tuesday, August 14, 2012


I will never, ever understand why married people cheat. 
You’ve got someone already!!!! Stability!!! Someone who loves you and would bring you breakfast in bed if you ask nicely!!!

You don’t have to wonder anymore how someone feels about you!! Like, I know you love me baby, see, you signed your name here, here and here.

So, why do these (ring-less) married guys go out and flirt with other people? WHAT, BREAKFAST IN BED DOESN’T DO IT FOR YOU???

It’s incredibly greedy.

And ALSO nobody ever mentions when a married guy crosses the line with an unsuspecting chick, how she feels when she finds out.

You know how she feels? Like a cheap wh0re.

This is exactly how my friend Jessie felt Saturday night, after she made out with the drummer of a band after the show, who turned out to be very much married.

His name was David and Jessie had seen him play before with very good bands in New Orleans. She said he always took a liking to her – coming up to her after shows to talk to her, telling her she was gorgeous, etc. He even gave her his number.

After one particularly late night show, David sat next to her at a booth in the corner and they made out, just for a little bit.

He got her cell phone number and told her he really liked her.

“Ahh!! Can you believe I just made out with him?” Jessie asked her friend at the bar, who knew most of the members of the band.

“Wait, what?” her friend said. “David? That guy’s married.”

 Jessie’s drunk heart fell.

Married? MARRIED??

He certainly didn’t mention a wife, and he wasn’t wearing a ring. 

Now what was she, some sort of “other woman?” (Let’s hope a private investigator wasn’t lurking, taking pictures).

Jessie walked right over to David, interrupting his conversation with someone at the bar.
“Are you married??” she demanded loudly.

“Yea,” he said. “But me and you, we’re just kickin it.”


Lose my number,” Jessie said dramatically and left the bar to catch a cab. She was furious and embarrassed.

She went home and passed out right away. The next day, when she woke up, she had FOUR missed calls from David. (The exact OPPOSITE of losing her number.)

What did he need to say at 4 a.m. exactly? Was his wife out of town?? Was he trying to get an invitation over to her house?

Jessie rolled her eyes and went back to bed.

The next time she woke up, an hour later, she saw a text from him.
“Are you still mad at me?”


“Tell your wife hi” Jessie wrote back.

“I’m sorry. We can be friends. No making out,” David wrote.

“…anymore” Jessie replied.  “Lose my number.”

She already had enough friends. Enough friends to boycott going to any of David’s shows ever again.

And certainly no more shows with cover charges so he can take that money and spend it on people who are NOT his wife.

Maybe he’ll get KICKED out the band. Or KICKED out his house.

Any type of KICKING, really…to the crotch.


Tuesday, August 7, 2012


Weddings can be tricky to bring a date to, especially when you don’t really have a defined relationship with said date.

Like, even though your date spends the night at your place frequently, are you allowed to hit on other other people at the reception?

Or, not tell someone hitting on YOU that you’re with a date?

Is it OK, if your date is not your proper boyfriend or girlfriend, to ignore them for a good portion of the night?


Miss Manners says you can not do any of these things at a wedding.

This isn't a crawfish boil. This is your PLUS ONE, people. Have some respect. (Also, God is watching.)

As such, if you ARE interested in doing any of the above things, then just go to the wedding alone.

Chance, this guy my friend Marie dated, not only turned out to be a shitty wedding date, but also a shitty person. And it only took the uniting of two souls before the presence of God to figure it out.

Chance and Marie had been hooking up on-and-off for about a year and he surprised her by inviting her as his date to a wedding that he was standing in.

...If only he had gone alone.

He certainly considered going alone, based on a thoughtful text to Marie the next day saying that he "debated 100 percent” about whether asking her to attend or not.


Since Chance was in the wedding, ALL EYES ON HIM, YA’LL, he frequently left Marie alone to go mingle with others, take pictures or dance with other people. During the three-hour reception, I never saw him sitting next to her once.

Marie was (somehow) fine with it, sitting at the table talking to mutual friends and getting her own drinks.
It was at the after-party, after the reception, that things got un-holy (haha).

Marie was finally looking forward to hanging out with him, yet he seemed more interested in another female guest, who had wedged herself between his bar stool and the bar so that his legs were sort of straddling her, and she was facing him.

Marie frowned.

“What are you doing?” she asked, as she pulled Chance aside. “Why are you sitting there getting hit on like that? I’m your date.”

He could have changed the course right there. He could have said, Oh, I didn't know, whoops my bad babe let's get you a drink.

(Oh and P.S. sorry I've been MIA for the whole wedding!!!!)

No. Chance didn’t agree that he was being hit on, told her it was nothing, and walked back to the bar, same spot, and proceeded to let the same thing happen again.

Not even the most casual hook up partner would have put up with that.

(I, for one, would have slapped him.)

Marie yanked him aside for the second time, and that’s when Chance told her that the REAL problem here, the REAL problem, was that "you're just DRUNK and stealing my night away."

Stealing your night away from what exactly?

From home girl??

A fight then ensued, in which Chance said, “you're really stepping on my toes here.”


No, Chance, your NON-date is stepping on your toes, and you're not doing anything to stop it.

He was almost encouraging the flirting. 
It was hurtful.

But then it got worse.

By that late hour, Chance was angry and drunk and when Marie asked him if she should just go home, he replied, “I DON'T CARE. I DON'T CARE WHETHER YOU LIVE OR DIE!”



…Coming from someone who she had been spending time wasting her time with for almost a year.

Marie took a cab home and cried.
“I’ve never been so insulted in my whole life,” she texted him the next day.

But Chance wasn’t apologizing. This wasn’t going to be his fault.

"Look I was reluctant and didn’t want a date to the wedding…guess you didn’t pick up on that,” he wrote.

(Side note: THEN DON’T ASK. )

He goes on:

“Just take what I said how you want to, you big baby,” he wrote.

(Side note: ??????#%$%##^@&#)

And the finish: “…And take responsibility for YOUR bad behavior.”


WHAT bad behavior???

Bring him back to the church!!
That guy needs a proper beating from a nun.


Intergalactic Ignoramus

I went to a costume party this past weekend and didn't recognize anybody.

Wait, let me clarify. I DID recognize my friends. I did NOT recognize who they were dressed as. And we’re talking common characters here. Superheroes and villains!

It's not their fault. I'm just ignorant.

I called The Green Lantern The Green Hornet. Twice.

I asked Princess Leia if her date was Luke Skywalker.

I nervously asked The Riddler if he was, indeed, the Riddler.

And who was this guy supposed to be??

(Hulk Hogan.....'s brother??)

How is this possible, you ask? How could I not know comic book and TV characters that are so common they’re printed on little boys’ underoos?


Oh, right. I spent my childhood reading Barbie comics. And…I wasn’t allowed to watch movies.

At the party (which was awesome), I felt kind of lame for not knowing such simple characters. And I just stopped asking people who they were dressed as when I was chided for not knowing that an Ewok is...like a cat or something.

I also felt a bit out of place for not having trekked it (huh huh get it) to the costume shop for a memorable character of my own, like Beetle Juice or something.

(I was dressed like a rose and my friend Meredith was a thorn. We did not take this very literally, although I still have a fake rose tattoo on my ankle that my mother questioned me about the next day.)

But back to costumes. It’s the Star Wars that really gets me.

“Hey, you and Princess Leia over here should hang out,” I told a robot-masked friend, who I assumed was Darth Vader.

“Um, that’s a complete ‘nother world,” he said, matter-of-factly, before getting a beer at the bar.

I still don’t know if that response meant that he was from Star Trek, and not Star Wars, or if there are several “worlds” in the Star Wars franchise. 

(That guy looks like Darth to me.)



These are things I need to know before Halloween.

I gotta work on my Barbie costume.


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